


Forté

by sparklyfaerie



Category: Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:59:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1253743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyfaerie/pseuds/sparklyfaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She let her hands slip away from the keys to rest in her lap as she turned. She started a little, her cheeks colouring in embarrassment. “How long have you been listening?”</p>
<p>“Not very.” He admitted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forté

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Though it is now considered to be in the public domain, I do not take any credit for the creative genius that created Emma, or it's characters. That's all Jane Austen.
> 
> I tried really hard. I really did, but I don't know if I managed to get them right. I hope I at least made them recognisable.

Mrs. Knightley did not often practice the piano. To be sure, she played well, and was often praised for her performances, but she always played pieces that she knew she would do credit to. She seldom exerted herself to learn new songs, insisting that she knew quite enough melodies to play two every night of the week and still have some left over; why should she learn new music when she had more than enough at her disposal, and many other things that required her time and energy besides?

It was these previous assertions that piqued the curiosity of Mr. Knightley as he returned to Donwell Abbey after conducting some business in the village, to the tentative sounds of the pianoforte in the music room. He followed the wavering melody, expecting to perhaps find the steward’s little daughter playing about. He was fond of Kitty, but the girl had a tendency to make herself too much at home in the Abbey.

He was surprised, then, to see his wife seated at the grand pianoforte, her fingers passing over the keys as her eyes followed the sheet music in front of her. A small frown creased her forehead as she tripped over the music, letting out a sigh as she ceased playing.

He took a moment to admire her. Three years of marriage had not dulled his appreciation of her beauty. Seated as she was in the light from the open window, she seemed to glow, almost. His eyes trailing lower, his smile became gentle. The swell of her stomach, just starting to become obvious in her everyday wear, was exaggerated by the play of light and shadow across the fabric of her gown.

She let her hands slip away from the keys to rest in her lap as she turned. She started a little, her cheeks colouring in embarrassment. “How long have you been listening?”

“Not very.” He admitted. “You play wonderfully.”

She snorted in a decidedly unladylike manner. “You are biased, Mr. Knightley.” She pointed out, though she smiled. “I cannot even manage the first page.”

He laughed. “Perhaps.” He allowed. “What are you doing?”

Emma turned back to the piano, her fingers plucking out a few notes of the melody she’d obviously been trying to master. “Jane Churchill delivered a daughter on Friday.”

Mr. Knightley failed to see the connection. “I know.” She shot him a curious glance, turning back to her music. “Mr. Weston showed me the letter when I met him on my way home. But that does not explain your current employment.”

She gave a silent ‘ah’, playing a few more notes. “Cannot a woman play without there being a reason for it?” She asked archly, a small smile on her lips.

“Certainly.” He allowed. “But you are not such a woman.”

She sighed, her playing ceasing once more. “Jane’s daughter will have an excellent teacher in her mother.” She said miserably. “I have barely played since we married, except occasionally at a party; in fact I do not believe I have so much as looked at an instrument since my father passed. I do not play half so well as I used to.”

“I hear no great difference.”

She gave him a sharp look. “Mr. Knightley, I do not wish to be coddled. You have been honest with me all my life. I will not permit you to begin flattering me now.”

“I do not seek to flatter you, my dear.” He leaned on the doorframe, crossing his arms. “I said I hear no  _great_ difference. Perhaps your playing is not as it once was, but there is no displeasure in hearing your playing and singing as it is today. As I understand, it is natural for a woman to neglect her music after marriage.”

Emma shook her head a little. “Even so, most women retain enough to teach their daughters.”

He understood her meaning. Pursing his lips for a moment, he offered, “We do not know that the child will be a girl.”

“We do not know that it will be a boy, either.” She answered, her fingers taking up the tune again. “And, should it be a girl, I should like to know that I am capable—” her fingers slipped, pressing a few incorrect keys, “—of teaching her—” she persevered, frowning as she made still more mistakes, “— _to play the piano_ .” Frustrated, she slammed her palms down on the keys, making a ruckus that caused him to startle slightly.

He crossed the room in three strides to stand behind her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he bent over and kissed the crown of her head; she smelled slightly dusty. He made no comment. She’d been in the library when he’d set out that afternoon. He supposed she’d stayed rather longer than he’d expected she would. “Tell me,” he began, his voice warm. “What has the piano done to deserve such cruel treatment?”

She huffed, choosing not to reply. He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “As I said, we do not know the child will be a girl. And, if she should be, you will have several years to practice your own music before she will be old enough to learn.”

“I am being unreasonable.” She surmised lightly, looking out the window at the lawns. In the distance, a groundskeeper could be spotted raking the first of the autumn’s fallen leaves into a pile. Their child, Perry had told them, should be with them by the end of winter. “You are right, of course.”

“I hope that this is not the beginning of the return of your animosity for Jane?” He asked, trying to affect indifference. He had been under the impression that, as their communication was so frequent, she and Jane Churchill had maintained a steady friendship since her engagement to Frank Churchill had been made known.

It did not quite work. She had gotten irritatingly good at seeing through his charades since their wedding. “Of course not.” She snapped. “I am quite grown up enough to allow that there are more accomplished people than myself.” She sniffed. “Jane plays so well because she grew up believing she was to teach. It is expected that she should have applied herself so much more earnestly. It is only natural that I should be her inferior.”

“Of course.” He smothered a laugh. “It had nothing to do with your inability to settle to a task as a child, I am sure.”

“You are distracting me, Mr. Knightley.” Emma’s voice was sharp. “I must practice my music.”

He laughed. “Very well. I must go and see William Larkins, at any rate. I shall see you for supper.” She reached up to touch his hand and lifted her chin to look up at him with an affectionate smile. He kissed her forehead and retreated from the room, shaking his head as soon as he was out of her sight. The sounds of her hesitant playing, errors and all, followed him down the corridor.


End file.
